Keepsakes
by yuki kahara
Summary: A month and a half after Dean goes to Hell, Sam finally gets the courage up to go through his brother's duffle bag. Established main character death.


Warnings: Dean cusses, 'cos he's Dean. Sammy cusses, too. Nothing too horrible or unexpected of the boys. Contains some spoilers up 'til the end of season three, but nothing too huge. Unless you haven't watched up to there, but if that was the case, you shouldn't be calling your self a fan and be reading Supernatural stories anyway.

There is buckets of angsty goodness and not-so-manly-tears. You have officially been warned.

Disclaimers on the bottom, so nothing is given away.

That is all. Enjoy  
_

Keepsakes  
-Yuki Kahara

It's been nearly two months. 55 days. 1,320 hours. 78,200 minutes.

I've counted it out.

I need something more productive to do.

His duffle is sitting nicely on the other bed, near the head, like he always leaves it. It's completely silent, save for the damn clock on the wall, and I don't like it. It's never quiet with him around. Was never. Oh God.

My phone rings and I glance away from his bag just long enough to see that it's Bobby. Probably calling to check up on me. I haven't talked to him in a few weeks, even longer since I've seen him. I should probably answer it. When was the last time I saw Bobby? Probably not since Pontiac. Oh God. I let voicemail get it.

78,209 minutes.

I'm back to staring at his bag. Don't really know why I brought it in. Hell, I don't why I still get a room with two beds. Hell. He's in Hell. Because of me.

Before I even notice that I stood up, I'm sitting on the other bed, next to his duffle, still staring.

I get the sudden want, need, to touch it, to unzip it, to see and feel what was once his. At the same time, I get the feeling that I shouldn't. He never did like me touching his bag. I wonder why.

The zipper-pull is smooth from wear. How long has he been using this particular duffle? Years before I left for college. It glides open without a hitch and I'm strangely disappointed. It should have been hard to open from disuse.

78,221 minutes.

His clothes are the first thing I see. Not surprising. I hesitate a moment before grabbing the top one. It's a horribly wrinkled, old green dress shirt. Like he wears- wore- open over a t-shirt, with the sleeves rolled up. The fabric is starting to wear thin in some places. Not enough to worry about holes, but enough to know that it was a favorite choice. I carefully put it on the bed next to me, but it still takes a few seconds to let go and go back to the bag. I pull out all the clothes and sort them. Two jeans, four over shirts, six-and-a-half pairs of socks, six underwear, a hoody, and five t-shirts. The last t-shirt was his white "car shirt." He always wore it when he worked on the car, so only one, and not all, got grease stained. I hold the old shirt up and inhale deeply, a smile forming on my face. It still smells like him.

I remember mentioning his scent to him once.

He had been sixteen at the time, closer to fifteen than seventeen, and I was turning twelve soon. Dad had been off on a hunt somewhere, so it was just us. Not unusual. I had had a nightmare. To this day, I can't remember what it was, but it had left me wide awake, panting and sweating in the middle of the night, desperately wanting my big brother. He had been sound asleep on the other bed, sprawled on his stomach, his face turned away from me. Not wanting to disturb him, but still wanting him closer, I had instead grabbed the shirt he had been wearing that day from on top of his duffle and gone back to bed with it. I had slept peacefully the rest of the night, curled around it, inhaling his scent and listening to his light snores.

The second time I woke up was to the sound of running water. I was still trying to shake the sleep away when the water turned off and he came out a few minutes later, drying his hair and throwing his pajamas in his bag.

"Look who's finally up. Sleep well, Sunshine?"

I subconsciously gripped the shirt tighter.

"Uh, yeah. Yeah, I slept fine."

His raised eyebrow raised even more when he looked down at my hands.

I blushed, trying to hide the shirt, waiting for the teasing and questions to start. Instead, he asked if cereal was alright.

He had already eaten before I woke up. With nothing to do, he watched me. I could feel his eyes on me, and was on my second bowl when he mentioned it.

"You had a nightmare last night."

I looked up. How did he do that? It wasn't even a question.

"And instead of wanting to wake me up, you stole my dirty shirt. Why?"

I looked back down, blushing all over again.

"It smells like you."

"… Yeah, I would assume it would."

"You smell nice."

I played with my slightly soggy cereal, my face bright red, I'm sure.

"I smell nice?"

He sounded confused and slightly amused.

I just nodded.

We were quiet for a little while. Out of curiosity, I glanced up at him without raising my head. He was staring at his left shirt sleeve, scowling like he was trying to figure something out. The longer he thought, the more confused his scowl got.

Finally he asked, "What do I smell like that you'd classify as 'nice'?"

He had looked up at me, and I couldn't turn away, so our eyes had locked.

I tried to find the humor in his hazel depths, but couldn't because he was completely serious. He wanted to know.

Caught off guard, it took me a moment to recall that he had asked me something. It took a moment more to put it into words.

"Summer." I said in realization. "You smell like summer, just before it turns into fall. With just a slight undertone of oil and gasoline." And something else I still can't place, but makes me feel safe. I didn't tell him the last part, though.

He nodded, seemingly accepting that answer.

"Huh. Finish your cereal, wash your dishes and get ready. Dad called earlier. He said he'd be here soon."

And with that, he had stood up and started to leave the small kitchenette area. Right before he was out of sight, I saw him take a whiff of his collar and heard him mutter, "Summer. Well at least I don't smell like frickin' spring."

I had smiled at his calm and Dean-like response, but I had down right cracked up at his outburst not two minutes later.

"Ah, gross! Sammy drool! If you're gonna steal my clothes, at least don't slobber all over them, man! You sooo havta wash this!"

Ten years later, and I still chuckle as I put the "car shirt" down to finish going through the bag.

There is a knife, naturally. Plain, about six inches long, strapped nice and tight in its scabbard. There is also a little bottle of water (probably Holy), three restaurant packets of table salt (like that would do much), his switchblade, and a .45 pistol.

All 'weapons' went on the bed, except the gun.

It was a standard .45, nothing special, save for the white handle with the initials W.A. and that I had spent the entire night getting it back for him once.

There are only two guns he ever really used, two he NEVER let me handle. The sawed off he made as a kid and that pearl handled .45. He took that hand gun everywhere he thought he could get away with taking it. Including the confrontation with Max.

He had been annoyed when the cops confiscated it, but didn't appear too heartbroken. Until later.

Two and a half hours out of town we'd stopped for the night at some nameless motel. He'd been twitchy and irritated since we left Max's house, and now, half an hour in, he was pacing, running his fingers threw his hair and down his face.

I had asked what was wrong; if it was Max and our physic connection and he'd said no.

"If it's not that, than what?"

He had given me a cold, hard, unreadable stare at that, like he couldn't believe I had actually asked such a question. With his face straight and his eyes swimming, I suddenly realized how dangerous my brother was and wondered if this was what the things we hunted felt like, staring him down. Nervous, frightened.

"… Nothing. Don't worry about it."

With that, he'd turned away and the moment was gone.

He went back to pacing.

An hour later left him even more anxious and me with little patience, and forgetting his last reaction, I had snapped.

"What?"

"The gun!"

"The gun? You're driving me crazy because of your… damn… gun…?"

The look on his face had made me trail off. He looked worn, defeated, and, what startled me the most, on the verge of tears.

My frustration had vanished at his unusual response and I'd put down the book I had been trying to read to focus on him.

"Dean?"

He'd glanced sideways at me, just barely, before looking away and continuing to pace.

"Dean," I had said, trying to make my voice sound like Dad's when he gave Dean an order.

The authoritative tone had worked to get his attention, as I knew it would. He even stood up a little straighter, eyes locked on mine.

The look on his face, combined with his posture made me feel like I was walking on thin ice, stretched across the ocean. One wrong move, too much pressure, would break his being beyond repair and we'd both sink. He always made me feel like that before a serious conversation, so I already knew how to act to get what I wanted. I softened my voice, going from Dad to Little Brother is a second flat.

"Dean. What's so special about that gun?"

He stared blankly at me for a few minutes. The look was similar to the one an hour earlier, except more sad than angry, like he was already apologizing for something he had yet to do.

I had wanted to say, 'Never mind. You don't have to answer.' I almost did, but curiosity kept me silent.

Then he sighed, closing his eyes for a moment and walking over to the window. He'd leaned against the wall, his chin practically touching his right shoulder to look out it (and probably so he wouldn't have to look at me), arms and ankles crossed. He sighed again and I settled down for the story.

"A few weeks after you left for college, Dad took off to Minnesota. For what, I don't know. He didn't tell me. I'd been near Omro, Wisconsin, burning time, looking for a job when I ran into an old friend of mine. We'd talked. Played catch-up. It was fun. When Caleb called, said he had a job with my name on it, we exchanged digits, said 'bye and I left. It was a stupid easy salt an' burn. Done in a day. I barely had time to celebrate when I get this call from Brice. He's all panicked an' shit. Says something's in town. I come back to check it out. It was some damn nobody demon. I exorcised it. Sent its ass back to Hell, but not before it took Brice's parents with it."

He had paused there, probably remembering. After a few seconds of silence, he'd cleared his throat and continued.

"When everything had calmed down and I was leavin', Brice stops me. Hands me the gun. Told me it was his old man's. Then asks me to take it. Claims he'd feel better knowing I had a reliable weapon on me. I played the reassurance card. Told him I'd take care of it. And now. Now, it's locked up in some damn evidence locker. And I'll probably never see it again. And, dammit! I'm gonna go for a drive. I'll be back later."

With that, he had stormed out, looking pissed and still on the edge of tears.

I had thought about his story, long after the door had slammed.

He had never mentioned having a friend named Brice before. And the origins and reasons for always choosing the hand gun had never crossed my mind. He was really upset at having lost it. Or was it breaking his promise to Brice that had caused his distress? Either way, I figured maybe I should do something about it.

And then, he came back hours later, stumbling slightly and smelling like a cheap bar.

That had decided it. When I was sure he was out cold for the night, I got dressed, snatched his keys and drove two and a half hours.

It had taken nearly the entire night to haggle, manipulate and lie my way in, but I got it.

I had left it on the bedside table, so he'd see it right away when he woke up.

I had woken up to find him sitting on the edge of the bed, still in his sleep wear, gripping the gun as if it was a life line.

"How the Hell did ya pull that off?" he'd asked, looking up at me.

I had given him the short version.

"Told them I was CIA and that the gun was used in the murder of a fellow agent. Guess that outranks a local suicide."

We had both stared at each other completely serious for all of three seconds before grinning and bursting out laughing.

"I'm such a bad influence on you."

"I'm just surprise they bought that lame ass excuse."

His phone had buzzed, and still laughing and holding the gun, he'd leaned over to grab it.

"Coordinates from Dad. Guess we better hit the road, Sleeping Agent."

It was worth almost getting caught for his reaction .

Twenty minutes later, we were off to Mobridge, South Dakota.

Even though he was driving, he let me pick the music, as a silent 'thank you.' And as a silent 'you're welcome,' I picked one of his less annoying cassettes.

And the night before had never been mentioned again.

Grinning at the memory, I ran my thumb over the initials before setting it down on the "car shirt" and returning to his duffle.

It felt empty (I was just checking), and was surprised to find an letter sized envelope in there. It was old and worn, the seems all taped to keep it together.

As carefully as I could, I lifted the flap, grabbed the insides and pulled them out.

There were photographs, several of them, stacked neatly on top of five folded pieces of paper. I put the papers and envelope down to focus on the pictures.

The top one was strikingly similar to the one in Dad's journal, only where Dad's was a close up, this was a full body. We were in front of the tree at our old house in Lawrence. Mom was holding me and Dad was holding Dean, his arm wrapped around Mom's waist. No one was looking at the camera, though. Instead, Mom and Dad were watching Dean tickle me. We were all smiling and laughing. On the back, in I'm assuming Mom's hand, was **_Dean: 4 ½ yrs. Sammy: 2 mos_**. In the bottom right corner, on an angle and in Dean's unmistakable pen, was _**July, 1983**_.

The next picture was taken at the Roadhouse. Ash was playing with his computer, while giving a rocker's "I love you" to the camera. Jo was her mother's younger twin, both standing near Ash, arms crossed, eyes rolling in mock disapproval, yet still smiling at the cameraman. On the back, in the right corner, like before, was _**Feb., 2007**_.

The next two were practically copies of each other. It took me a second to realize the differences. The top was Dean's high school graduation. He was wearing his robe, his arm slung around my much shorter shoulders. I was wearing his cap for some reason and giving his a side hug. On the back, across the bottom, Dean had written _**Snowflake High School, Snowflake, Arizona**_, and in the corner, _**June, 1997**_. The other was my graduation. We were in the same position, only now, since I had hit my growth spurt, my arm was around his shoulders and I was wearing the gown, while his arm was around my back and he wore my cap. On the back, across the bottom, _**Woodbridge High School, Bridgeville, Delaware**_, and in the corner, _**June, 2001**_.

The next photo made me cringe in remembrance. It was Jessica and I, a few years younger, in a lover's embrace on the beach in proper attire. On the back, in Jess's beautiful hand was **_Spring Break '04 in Mexico_**. Across the bottom, _**Jessica Lee Moore: 21yrs. Thank you Jess**._ I couldn't help wondering how Dean had gotten the picture, but figured it really didn't matter, and went back to staring at it some more. We both looked so happy and carefree. I smiled, remembering that trip, before moving on to the next photo.

This one was nearly as old as the family photo; as a guess, I couldn't have been older that three. Dad and our "uncles," - Bobby, Caleb, Jefferson, Travis and Pastor Jim- were all gathered around in what looked like a kitchen. Bobby was talking, so all eyes were on him. I was in Dad's arms, clearly not paying attention to the conversation. I was all twisted up, smiling and giggling, a finger pressed to my mouth in a shushing motion. I was most likely copying the young cameraman, who was probably trying to take the picture in secret. He wasn't doing a 100% perfect job, because even though he face was turned towards Bobby, Pastor Jim was looking at the camera out of the corner of his eye, smiling. Across the bottom, in a more childish version of Dean's hand, was _**Sammy: 2 ½ yrs.**_, and the corner bore _**1985**_.

In the last photograph, I only recognized one of the four people in it. Looking at it, Dean stood on the far left. Beside him was a man a little older than him. They had their arms wrapped tightly around each other's shoulders. On the other side of the man, but mostly in front of him, was beautiful woman about Dean's age. The man's other arm was around her waist, like Mom and Dad, and she was leaning heavily against him. On the far right, the woman held a baby, a girl, if the clothes were anything to go by. The woman's free arm was stretched behind her to cross over and grasp Dean's free hand. They were all touching in someway, all connected. They were all serious, too, even the baby. Unlike all the other pictures, there were no smile, no laughter, in this one. Everyone looked depressed. The man and woman had been crying at some point, and Dean looked close to it. The way they were standing, the universal contact wasn't just for fun, it was necessary in order to stay up right. On the back, a woman, the woman most likely, had written, _**We are survivors. Dean Winchester, Brice, Amber and Baby Majestine Ahlyuss**_. The bottom read _**Majjie: 10 mos. **_The corner, _**2001**_. The same year I left for college. Brice. Was it the same Brice that had given Dean the .45? Brice Ahlyuss. His father would probably have been Ahlyuss. W. Ahlyuss. W. A.

I turned the photo over again. So this was the "old friend" Dean had mentioned that one time. The two of them looked close. In fact, Brice looked closer to Dean than to the girls, like Dean was holding him up. The tears must have been for Brice's parents.

I should look Brice Ahlyuss up, tell him about Dean. Somehow, I get the feeling he has as much right to know as I do. I'll do that later. For now, I put the picture down to look at the papers.

They're all folded into thirds to fit properly in the envelope. The first two are smaller in size because, as I find out, they're birth certificates.

Dean Johnathan Winchester. January 24, 1979. So on and so on with everything needed on a birth certificate. The second one is mine, or at least an approved copy of it.

Samuel James Winchester.

The third document is Dean's high school graduation certificate, saying that he had successfully survived 12 years worth of America's fine school systems.

The forth caught me by surprise. It was a report card of my last completed semester at Stanford. Jess had hung it on the fridge at out apartment to brag about how smart I was. Three A's and a B+. Dean must swiped it the night he came to get me. I had to smile, as a tear slipped past my defenses. My big brother was so proud of me, he had stole and kept a copy of my college grades.

The last paper was a personal typed up letter.

Dear Mr. Dean Winchester,

I had to laugh. Dean MUST have hated being addressed like that.

Dear Mr. Dean Winchester,

I am beyond pleased to have received your application. I'm glad you have decided to try our school like your councilors and I have recommended. I think you'll enjoy our hand-on engineering and building program. Your determination and dedication to what you believe in is phenomenal.

Please allow me to officially congratulate you on being accepted into Coldwater University of Engineering and Technology. Not many get the honor of saying they are one of our students, but you do.

My colleagues and I have agreed that you are too good a promise to pass up, so we have decided as a group to give you a very rare, full-time, fully-covered scholarship. Your books, classes, board and so on is completely "on us."

You are a very creative, very intelligent young man, Mr. Winchester. Don't ever let someone tell you otherwise.

Enjoy the rest of your high school days. The rest of the staff and I here are looking forward to seeing you in the fall after your senior year.

Yours truly,

Edward S. Corners, President

Coldwater University of Engineering and Technology

Coldwater, Michigan

I was floored. Coldwater University was by far one of the hardest Universities to get into, and not only had Dean gotten in, but also a full ride, as stated by the school's president in a personal letter.

I knew Dean was smart, and with the right motivation, he could achieve anything, but this was down right amazing!

And then it dawned on me. Dean never went to college after graduation. Never even mentioned it. He had never gone, yet he had kept the acceptance letter, hidden away with everything else he held dear to him.

Suddenly, what the shape-shifter had said to me in the sewers nearly two years ago came back to me.

"You don't think I had dreams of my own?"

He had given up those dreams for hunting. For Dad. For me.

I must had broken his heart the day I left.

He had abandoned his dreams for his family, and I had abandoned my family for my dreams.

I gently folded the letter back up and stacked the photographs and documents in the order I found them in and put them back in the envelope. Then I sat on the floor between the two beds, clutching the envelope, .45, and "car shirt" to my chest, remembering every memory I could involving my older brother.

I cried. And I stopped counting the minutes.

I sorta feel bad far Sammy. He's not my favorite, but still, that was just mean of me.

Disclaimer, as promised: Any recognizable characters or events belong to monsieur Eric Kripke and his lackeys. All the cities and high schools used are really real. I picked them at random. Kudos to you if you've ever lived/gone there. Let me know. :)  
The Ahlyuss family, Mr. Corners and the university are all mine. If they somehow DO exist, then I'm a physic like Sam. Go me. If you want to use Mr. Corners or his school (the Ahlyuss family is not up for grabs), I politely demand you ask me first, then wait for a written confirmation. Oh, and I have to be credited.

Guess that's it. Thanks for reading. Hope you liked it. Let me know.

Kahara-Taisho


End file.
